Birthday Poem, July 2, 2015

This is where
the Sun sets
on America
leaves behind
each night
rocks, trees
whatever
doesn’t fit
into the Sun’s
purse, the
weight of baggy
jeans, or electronic
images that
pixilate into
waves that vibrate
on the horizon
like the orgasms
of whales, the
fantasies of clams
or whatever
seaweed dreams
of as it rots.